Halloween
by lulusgardenfli
Summary: 1992: the ghosts of the past, present and future have a bewitching effect on the Curtis clan as they gather at Soda's for a Halloween bash. Copious pop-culture references throughout. Two-Shot
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: Well it's about 100,000 words so get you some espresso first! :) Some slurs/offensive/hurtful language.

Some possibly mature themes/language played both straight and tongue-in-cheek. A marshmallow tub of fluff. ;)

* * *

And then tomorrow on a cool Halloween buzzers and bells caw out from behind rusted chain linked fences and 'Beware of Dog' signs, as ADT doesn't come cheap; shards of yellow plastic that was once a ribbon loops around a tree; but tonight and katty corner and inside _the party and the sound rocks on_ as Ponyboy Curtis places a hand into the decapitated head of a Ninja Turtle and yanks out a Nestle Crunch bar and lets the chocolate slide in and with a bite.

"Stealin' candy from a baby?" From behind him, her voice cuts sharp, her black press on nails, fakes except for a pinkie, reach around and then into his ribcage.

Confused, a wrapper in his hand; he turned from Raphael's eyes and into his sister-in-law's breasts. Maybe even her nipples. Which aren't poking out like Tommy Curtis's eyes after he walked in on his sister naked that one time. Because tonight she's got on a corset. Other stuff too, this is a family shindig, there's even apple bobbing in the back yard, but also, a corset.

He adjusts his glance upward. She adjusts her weight downward then upward; silently, but with an open mouth, cussing the blisters on her feet. She baptizes them all the same: fuck, the same name eight years ago but in different frequency and pitch and venom with foamed spit she cussed Soda and vowed to cut off his dick, but not before soaking it in acid. Then the doc is telling her to push.

On a normal day Mary Curtis is a hairdresser, mother, wife and a slightly neurotic Patsy Cline fanatic. Today she is a hairdresser, mother, wife, slightly neurotic Patsy Cline fanatic and according the label on the costume purchased at an adult bookstore in Oklahoma City a "sexy witch" (as if she could be any other kind).

Her nails (except for that pinkie) are sharp, her tongue sharper and the heels on her boots stand somewhere between 'courtesan' and 'street walker' and however you put it- downright sadistic. And damn how is she not tripping in these yet?

_Sugar tits,_ it would be exhausting to be this sexy all the time. Not to mention the boob sweat. Or the speeding ticket in some bumfuck town somewhere in between OKC and Tulsa (and they're all bumfuck towns between Oklahoma City & Tulsa), her costume still wrapped up in plastic on the passenger seat, with the Blessed Mother looking down at it, twirling round a red thin thread hooked to the mirror.

"Everything alright?" There's sincerity and confusion, and annoyance behind his question and behind his large frame is an actual frame that holds her cosmetologist license.

"Sure, don't be trying to worm your way outta this one, here you are stealing candy from my grand baby." She stretches it into two words, savoring it more, owning it the way she doesn't own grandma. She's Lola. One of her old friends was a member of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence and Lola Lo Kinx was his nun name, she gave it to him, an example of her proudly tongue in (ass)cheek humor. Her friends, those still alive, thought it was a riot when she told them she was going to be a grandmother, shipped over adult diapers and old ladies stockings and bunion pads… and damn she could really use the latter now.

She crosses her arms, covering up her tattoos that are still draw all kinds of scrunched nose stares, including an 'H' and 'L' and a 'C', crosses and the Virgin Mary.

Devoutly (if nontraditional) Catholic (as if she could be any other kind) she wears her faith under and on top of her skin.

She is also a (step)grandma , er, LOLA, to two little boys; Curtis "Curt" Nguyen and Cassius "Cash" Nguyen.

Curt named after his dad's family and Cash named after, well, the poor boy is named after his mother's childhood horse-'my favorite horse' she would tell Soda Curtis's grandson as if THAT made it any less humiliating. Jeez. Though Soda, who is still a bit horse crazy, thinks it's as a great as a story as Curt's name.

Course if C.D. Curtis were narrating he would_ insert_ a Catherine the Great quip right about…now. If Paige Gent-Curtis were listening she would remind her cousin that there's no evidence that Catherine the Great died copulating with a stallion.

Then Billy (C.D's little brother) would probably look at them like they're nuts, "y'all think of some weird shit."

Ponyboy Curtis (named in honor of his dad's childhood nickname) looks back at the mantle where the plastic Ninja Turtle head sits. Not like there's a sign on it. Except for the giant CURT written in Soda's handwriting.

Except it's not alone, it's next to a picture of Darrel Curtis Sr. and Karen Josephine 'Jo' Curtis, heads tilted, in their Sunday best. His suit not quite fitting, her hat looks new. There is a tear in the corner. He doesn't notice the picture, it's always been there since Mary & Soda moved here in the mid-70s and his parents have been dead since he was thirteen.

And now, Ponyboy Michael Curtis, who hates wearing a tie and a suit, has outlived both of his parents.

There's a larger version of the same photo, with no rips, on Mary's altar. So is Patsy Cline and others, cut outs from magazines, framed and matted like the rest.

"Curt's what? Four, Five? In some cultures that's practically middle aged, besides kids that age don't like Nestle Crunch," and thinking of Paige and Daphne and their_ Recess_ obsession, pretends to scratch his beard. But he doesn't need to pretend anymore, in September he started growing it again and now it looks like a beard and not a 'midlife crisis.'

In Canada his beard grew out and looked like a grizzled lumberjack, complete with flannel jackets and baseball caps from his favorite American teams. A way of saying, '_hey I may completely disagree with our involvement in Southeast Asia, but damn if we don't have some good sports teams_.'

A sexy grizzled lumberjack (as if there is any other kind).

It's those eyes. His green-he owns it now, with a greyish tint.

If Darry's eyes are piercing, Soda's expressive, Pony's are piercing and expressive and therefore poetic.

His eyelashes: long, thick and penetrative.

And if P.M. Curtis read a story where a character had long, thick eyelashes, and face it, the way he reads, he probably has he would assume the author meant them as a phallic representation, like Medusa's snake hair. Or maybe a new freak show act '_the amazing horse man with his scores of penises erecting from his sexy eyes'_ (as if he would possess any other kind, eyes, not penises).

His brother Soda has the same eyelashes. Maybe that was the secret to their appeal; not their long, silky hair, or even their grins that could never lie straight, but their eyelashes.

This whole tangent to (as C.D. would quip just to make Billy snort Pepsi out his nose) goes Flaccido Domingo.

Mary cracks a loud laugh. "Just wait 'til I tell Curt his Uncle Pony's stealing his candy," with a playful slap, but she do it too.

Pony digs his hand back into Raphael's head and yanks out another candy bar, "here, a peace offering," offered dryly.

She laughs, "this ain't no peace offering, it's bribery and now I'm as deep in as you are."

He tilts his head, just like her husband does and his palms face upward. "Don't know what to tell ya, babe," Soda would say. Pony says nothing.

She looks down at the candy bar. Butterfinger. _Butterfinger_?

Who the fuck likes Butterfinger?

"Grab me a Snickers there Jesse James."

* * *

He went to prison they'd say ominously. Like the feds are outside and they're cosplaying Ruby Ridge. Except not here in Soda's living room, and Pony ended up at minimum security work camp and when he got out, his imprisonment, or at least what he was imprisoned for, helped his career. While some guys Pony grew up with can't land minimum wage jobs because no one wants to hire a guy with a record. Not in this economy.

He writes about prison conditions, abuse, giving a voice to those whom society hates. How hard it is to make people care. How hard it is to make himself care sometimes. At fourteen he told his English teacher his story, but also Johnny's, Dally's and Bob's stories and he still wants people to understand. Sometimes he has trouble understanding himself.

Does some work at the paper, teaches, but ghostwrites too, earns money pretending to be other authors. Darry doesn't understand how he could write, work hard on something and be okay not getting the credit. Sometimes he feels stifled. Writing as other people for so long.

Pony thought Soda, with his ability to understand people, get inside (and sometimes under) their skin would have made a good ghostwriter, a good writer period.

Soda lets out his contagious laugh, "Huh that would be a trip."

* * *

Over Christmas lights hovering from the ceiling and one that keeps on blinking and "Hey there witchy woman," from Uncle Pony.

"Hey." A small grin, but he can't see it under her brim, covered in silver sparkles.

But it doesn't matter; she's Hazer Curtis and that alone makes Pony smile for her.

If she moves her neck upwards she'll see the photo of the grandparents she never met, but hears all about, smiling down on her too. Except her grandma doesn't smile with her teeth that are badly damaged in part by the same genes that gave her a face sculpted and beautiful, like Daddy used to look, if she looked at his high school yearbook.

And also growing up in the Depression, the Dust Bowl, that's also why her teeth are messed up; and a childhood injury.

She doesn't look like them. Or anyone on her dad's side.

"The cute little Mexican looking one," is how someone referring to her right now, who didn't remember, despite being at a party hosted by her parents, her name; which is Hazer, because her parents like the rodeo.

Her mama is from L.A. Mexican and Irish. The original Leprechano she calls herself, and then her kids, though never really learned Spanish growing up.

Some find her mama beautiful, others a bit odd looking, with sharp teeth and sort of cat eyes a bit too close together like a beta fish looking into a mirror; those shoulder blades at accusatory angles. But, they always, even when she's out in sweats, find her. The way even at barely 5'1 she takes over a room, larger than life, a cyclone, a siren, like her voice.

She's beautiful in an indigestible sort of way, as if John Waters and Andy Warhol mindfucked her into existence. Gorgeous, enigmatic, feminine and hard, is how her former sister-in-law used to describe her looks, which is probably accurate; Aimee's a photographer and has an eye for those sorts of things.

Not Hazer though, who by high school blends into the grey tinted pages of her yearbook til her hair falls in thick bangs nearly blinding her eyes; anonymous almost. So despite those eyes, not really like her mom either.

"I like your costume, Hazer." Hazer has on black tights, a black t-shirt with a sparkly rainbow and unicorn, a silver sparkled witch's hat on top of hair thick, curly, knotted, and gnarled in spite of her mama's best efforts and genes. It drives her mom nuts. The hair, not the girl. Not yet.

Her black tutu fluffs and billows around her.

To his surprise, instead of just nodding or mumbling thanks, if that, Hazer speaks.

"Me and mom are both witches, but I ain't no hoochie witch." Then she explains, "I'm too young to dress like that." Then she thinks, "I don't want to neither."

"Well, uh, of course." Ponyboy Curtis is tongue tied. Did his niece just say that she wasn't a hoochie witch? And if she said that she wants to be a hoochie witch is he supposed to pat her shoulder and assure his niece that yes she too can be the best darn hoochie witch in the entire world?

Shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.

"Hazer!" Her dad calls out to her, over _Heartache, Tonight_, waves her towards him.

Without saying another word, Hazer walks away; she has on white sneakers with pink laces, stained from last week's mud and rain. Her tutu lace swings out and in.

* * *

Time had not been great to Soda P. Curtis, though perhaps better than it should have been. As a newly minted 44 year old he looked older than both his brothers, and it has nothing to do with the greys or even the lines around his eyes. There's a weariness to him. A weariness that might have gone unnoticed by strangers who have their own weariness to contend with, but for those who knew him growing up, who remember his impossibly good looks, his smile, how _**damn beautiful**_ he once was, to see him again, even if they were somewhat expecting it (after all they're also older) comes as a small electric shock, something called schadenfreude too.

Think it might be it's his wild life catching up to him? But his wife led a life just as wild and she manages to somehow look better at almost 43 than she did a decade earlier. Or it's just genetics, how his mom's looks would have faded if she wasn't killed at 40.

But at least his pupils are wider than the injection of a needle.

* * *

Into the blackness of closed eyes Two-Bit Mathews leans against a bookshelf filled with toys, photographs, old _People _with curled up pages pirated from Mary's hair salon, a WRHS yearbook, a few cassettes, with red solo cups pressing in stains like broken handcuffs into a shelf yanked out of a dumpster. Belches the bawdry laugh of someone who'd interrupt Paige Gent-Curtis reciting that famous line from Gibran's '_On Children'_ with a "well shucks, what the hell am I doin' paying child support for!"

Steve is here too, somewhere with Evie. This used to be his house. Now it's Soda's. Now the bedroom that used to be his is shut. "PRIVET" Hazer writes, underlined twice, then "PLEASE."

And this probably shouldn't be said in front of an eighty year old, never mind an eight year old. But she stands there unobtrusively. It's rude to interrupt people, her parents told her that.

Poke Two-Bit and give a warning glance and a stage cough towards Hazer, in her little witch's hat; her mama has a witch's hat on too.

"Hey there little lady! Didn't see ya there!" Gawdammit. How the hell did Soda Curtis end up with such a quiet kid? If Two-Bit thought Pony was quiet, he had nothing on Hazer. The little sneak.

"Do y'all want something to drink? I think we still got some beer."

"Your daddy still got Pabst?" Her dad's old co-worker asks.

Hazer nods and begins to list off, with fluency all the drinks in their house. "I'll get 'em for you." (Soda will).

"You're the best bartender I'd ever seen, I'd hire you on the spot." But Hazer shakes her head, "nah, I'm too young." The guest who poked Two-Bit smiles at the little girl's sincerity, her innocence, Hazer adjusts her witch's hat. "Maybe, when I'm a teenager," she adds. She's pretty sure you can start drinking at 15 when seems an awful long ways away. Her mom started taking amphetamines when she was 13.

"Uncle Two-Bit?"

"Pepsi."

* * *

And slurpees, bikes with skinned shins, _Superman_ and _Welcome Back Kotter; _as if American boyhood in 77/78 was a red, white and blue magic shield against remembering and pinkies blown off during the Tet Offensive.

And English.

When he came to this country his white skin, blond (dark caramel in the winter) hair, came to a 'Gook' halt when he opened his mouth (Soda's mouth) and said 'ten toi la Patrick.' They looked at him and their faces were jigsaw pieces that couldn't lock. Not understanding how he could speak Vietnamese like he was Vietnamese.

As a kid who wanted nothing more than to be an American he hated his accent, pissed off that his mother never bothered to teach her half-American son half of his language. His mom who could speak better English than his dad, more proper, correct, like maybe the 'g' had a place at the end of words.

But now, he made a peace with it. Maybe because he's a Buddhist now or older, the boy who spent his life catching up and away from his parents, their traumas and triumphs which circle and clawed into each other, into him too.

When the first small trickles of Vietnamese refugees, mostly those like "Uncle" Phuc who had connections to and obligations from, the U.S. government came to America they settled mostly in California, but some in Oklahoma City. Now, after the Amerasian Homecoming Act there is a sizable community of Vietnamese in Oklahoma, Tulsa included. Patrick is a translator/interpreter/cultural fixer for them and drives back between OKC and Tulsa and sometimes Kansas, where his Grandma grew up, the adopted daughter of Quakers and where there is another community of refugees who will become Immigrants and one day they hope, their children: American, also.

And the looks he sometimes still gets when they see his face with his name as he comes to interpret. Sometimes appreciation, confusion, or like he's a beloved pet who just learned to walk on its hind legs. Or recognition.

Pausing, trying to remember the exact phrase in Vietnamese he has not spoken since childhood while the English equivalent is on his tongue like a leashed dog waiting to bite. Remembering the word in Vietnamese, but it takes his throat a second to remember the exact tonal inflection so the word comes out right.

Or when he started to dream in English and not Vietnamese and now eats banh mi and pho at least once a week. When he can't patronize the Vietnamese restaurant he goes to Reasor's grocery and picks up bread, meats and vegetables and makes them for his family. His father-in-law doesn't think it taste any different, but with (a lot) more vegetables, than he's used to. Patrick wishes the store sold the right seasoning.

Over the years his accent mutated and now in his mid-twenties it sounds strange & fitting enough for the son of an Okie father and a Vietnamese mother, a sort of California drawl, between them but not like either one.

A special affinity and obligation to the Amerasians whose stories are both similar and so violently different from his own, especially when he's accepted and embraced by his American father, who pulls him into a quick hug, "hey hon," like Patrick is, like Hazer is, Soda's soul.

And Patrick loves his father and forgives the hands that now pull him in for a welcomed embrace, tormented by his own traumas, struck him with all five fingers. Hard. But that paled compared to how those wild eyes looked right through him as if it was Patrick who was the ghost.

* * *

"There's my nugget!" Mary tickles Cash who is dressed in a brown onesie with a McDonalds chicken nuggets box taped on.

She gives her stepson a side eye with her hug, "you're kidding me?! How the hell are you Soda's son when you try to pass this off as a Halloween costume? You know I love ya baby, but I got half the mind to smack you."

If at a lower decibel, he tries to repeat her smile. They were at the doctor's all morning and then he had to deal with Crystal, he really doesn't care about a costume. Or this party, but doesn't want to hurt their feelings. Besides he thought the nugget idea that his wife came up with was clever in thought, if not in its execution in the parking lot.

"Hey, Crystal bringing Curt around?" Soda thinks Curt will get a kick watching the fireworks he's setting off tonight (people still don't call the cops in this neighborhood) but really Soda will get a bigger kick watching his son and his grandson. He leans in and kisses Cash, now in his arms, bouncing him.

"Sorry Dad, she has him the entire weekend…" There's a sigh, as if his dad asked him the question last night, or maybe guilt too. When he's older Patrick will regret not spending the time he should have with his sons, especially his first born. But the guilt already burrowing inside of him is of something deeper, harder. And how do you admit it to Soda Curtis, to any Curtis man, who for all their faults, (seem to) take so naturally to parenting?

"Does she even know to take him trick or treating?" Mary snaps. Says_ she_ but means _the slut_. She hates Crystal, which she isn't supposed to because hate is a sin, but …she remembers how devastated Patrick was and…that little wretch…

She wasn't supposed to know the real reason Patrick divorced her, and Soda keeps secrets better than anyone. But one night Crystal in a very un Crystal like move (though not the first un Crystal like move she's ever made); tearfully screamed on their front lawn (like she might be Angela Shepard's daughter) her confession inside her sorry.

And thinks to herself oooh if she could just stick her stiletto heels up that skanky ass, if Crystal, like "Gramgela" Shepard is alleged, don't have meth dick up in there too.

Eyes narrowed and blazing, he stares hard at Mary, why does his wife need to do this? Soda can physically feel how uncomfortable Patrick and Casey are, how tightly wound his wife is. She gives Soda two middle fingers with her pupils. He's glad Curt isn't here now.

Casey shifts a bit, normally self-assured, wishing she had her baby in her arms again to cover it up. But Patrick, his demeanor as calm as it is unreadable just tilts his head (like his dad) and says in a neutral tone "Chrissy's taking him trick or treating."

But Soda notices the quick tense smile (call it a grimace) that comes to Casey's face when she hears him call her Chrissy.

"Well, we got a bunch of candy for him," Soda says, partly to cut through the awkwardness, with a huge grin and points to the ninja turtle. "And got something for this tough guy too," Mary comes back with little stuffed pumpkin that squeaks for Cash now back in his mom's arms.

"Pretty sure it might be a dog's chew toy or something," Soda adds wryly, "but we figure it makes a decent toy."

Casey, who ran her own horse riding business at age 18, and is now a mother of infant with cerebral palsy and a stepmom of a preschooler, lets out an unexpected, girlish giggle.

"Oh wow, thanks so much." Patrick paws through the candy. "Nice, Butterfinger and Nestle Crunch, those are his favorites." He gives Casey a look when his stepmom lets out a cackle and points her finger like a gun at Uncle Pony.

"But, this is too much you guys. He doesn't need all this candy. Not on top of everything else you do." He pulls out a bag of M&Ms to show Casey as if it's proof.

"Aww hell, just take it yourselves, that's what we did when Santa comes by with a sleigh full o' presents for your sister," he gives Hazer, now standing next to her mom a wink with the eye not covered with a patch "just pillaged what we wanted 'n gave her the leftovers."

Soda readily admits what happens next is all his fault, that he should have seen it coming.

"LIAR! THERE AIN'T NO SUCH THING AS SANTA!" And maybe Hazer does sound like her mom, because from across the room they look at her. Hazer stopped believing in Santa when she was real little; her parents were hoping they'd have a few more years.

Unfortunately the exact assemblage of guests who believed in both Santa and Hazer are all in earshot.

One little boy bursts into tears, a few others look confused. Two little boys dressed like devils though seem to enjoy the spectacle. Patrick's glad Curt's at his mom's.

Mary quickly slaps her hand over Hazer's open mouth to shut her up.

"Ow," Hazer exclaims more frustrated than hurt.

"Sorry," Mary says unapologetically, mimicking to Casey wanting to strangle the girl while Hazer mummers _things_ under her breath.

"Okay, I'm gonna distract 'em, you slip out the backdoor," her daddy, squatting next to her, whispers. Hazer just narrows her eyes at him. Soda laughs, gives his daughter a kiss and walk over to the crying, _Jesus Christ_, internally he rolls his eyes, kid whose mother looks like she wants to tear Soda limb from limb.

Which as a masochist should excite him, but doesn't.

_Oh though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death._

And because kids are more important than adults, Soda ignores the mom completely, gets down on eye level, speaks in a gentle but firm tone.

"Listen honey, of course there's a Santa Claus. Hazer don't know what the heck (he almost said hell) she's talking about. Don't listen to her nonsense."

And it works.

* * *

_Maybe it's weird being an (ex)soldier and watching another war on T.V.? Felt like it ended before it began. There are parades and speeches and Bernard Shaw. Outside on trees, yellow ribbons, blindfolding the trunks that stand at attention though a few wobble some. Some guy in uniform is talking about how this, some flash bang bang in the desert, eviscerated America's shame and guilt after Vietnam and fuck if he has to hear Lee Greenwood warble "And I'm proud to be an American…" The volume is on low, so not to wake up Mary and 'Hazer Hazer My Stargazer,' who still is okay with that pet name and who, with her class wrote a letter to a soldier, Soda helped her. And hoped that whoever they were writing, he'd make it out okay to have a kid too._

_Like Patrick who is his dad's hero and who listened to the Eurythmics' Touch and Alphaville's Forever Young so many times the cassettes disintegrated. Like Hazer whose breath still smells like PB&J even after she brushed her teeth and who bought an Eagles LP to show and tell. And who says 'aw shit,' like she's Soda's daughter, but with her hands on her hips like her mom. Who asleep in her crib, with her baby earrings, how he would stare at her and carefully bring her to his chest so that he could feel her heartbeat next to his. How he had to do this._

_And maybe Hazer, unlike her brother won't ever need to know that her dad was a soldier once. How it wouldn't explain anything for her, like his temper sometimes._

_Probably did, will. That's good. Casualties are low. Real low. Least on the American side. Which makes Soda think even more about those who died on both sides, about their families. Sort of like being struck by lightning._

_He joined the army. It was a wound in his family, for years, rotting, even as they all grew up on stories of Uncle Pat, the war hero._

_But now to Soda with an index finger pressed into the grey in his temples, and wearing black boxers (squint and do some leaps, they may look a bit like the shorts worn by the V.C.), sitting on his couch with the glow of the T.V. in front of him, there's a kind of pride. Not of the Greenwood variety or parades with fluttering flags, or the red, white and blue sheet cake Mary bought on sale at the store. And yeah, gonna be a grandpa again. There's an involuntary smile and then nothing._

_But he can tell himself that he chose it; gives him a sense of ownership, control. That's what he tells himself. But strange because when he was little his teachers told his parents how sweet he was and how out of control._

_And how he ended up in Vietnam, how he ended up signing up to join the army just a few weeks after 18, that story, it changes too depending on his mood, on the looks given, for a while on how FUCKING HIGH OUTTA HIS EVER LOVIN' MIND he was, but all versions true, if some only in a cosmic sense._

_Now they're interviewing a Vietnam Veteran on T.V. It's strange watching some middle aged stranger, potbellied and balding and realizing, he's the same age as you. Maybe younger. Maybe Pony's age. That's a mindfuck. Grab a lighter on top of Jasmine Guy on the cover of last week's T.V. Guide. Started smoking in boot camp and tosses it up a few times, catching it in the palm of his hand all throughout the commercial break, some kind of dog food. Had a dog once. Maybe he'll get Hazer a puppy when her birthday rolls around? October 1991, she'll be turning seven._

_Yawn and on a small screen in the corner, Iraqi, he guesses, oil fields on fire. He's not having a flashback, how could he when this war is nothing like 'Nam? How can he when his breath isn't rapid, heartbeat isn't racing and eyes aren't dilated. When he doesn't need to look up over the horizon of his infant daughter's tiny head and her earrings and "Hazer, Hazer my stargazer," or check in on his teenage son, sprawled across the bed, covers on the floor. The way his foot would stick out._

_When he's yawning and his foot's asleep so he kicks it (lightly) against the coffee table and causes the T.V. Guide and Jasmine Guy to bounce up and then down and he wants chips. You can't be having a flashback when you want Ruffles._

_And cake._

_Now, if he saw that picture from the Highway of Death, maybe it'll be different? But none the less, the lighter's flame comes awfully close to his gritted front teeth._

Shut your mouth.

The first time you tried to speak, to Ponyboy, it was a fuckin' disaster. Your fault. He forgave you and you needed that, God did you need that, but it felt just like another notch in a long tally of ways you've fucked up, hurt people you love.

A 'Nam grunt and watch them draw in the lines of your story before another word. A hero, a villain, a scared kid, a ruthless soldier, a victim of the military industrial complex, a tool of imperialism, an honorable boy fucked up the ass by his country…

Not that you're in a position to judge when it comes to fucking people.

And they're right and wrong at the same time. But remember, you signed up for that shit. No one drafted you. So suck it up.

_Casualties of War, Platoon, Apocalypse Now_, _Full Metal Jacket_ and even when they don't say nothing some people are begging to ask if you cut off ears or tongues, fingers, heads or rape. Vietnam ain't just the first T.V. war; it was the world's first snuff film.

That they want to ask those questions tells you that you can talk 'til you're blue in the face and they won't get it.

Like _you_ do? Motherfucka.

Or mosquitoes how many there were.

Nah, better to keep it to yourself because if you don't the floodgates will open and your stories will come out. They won't understand.

The human capacity for horrors is unlimited as the sky. This vast void that sometimes can be torn into bite sized chunks just wide enough to fit inside the lens of a camera and named. Like My Lai. But mostly exists without shape, form, name, but encircling, you know now, _everyone_. This abyss that they pretend don't exist. That they fight valiantly against. And then don't. They become tired, or something sends them over the edge, or no one is watching, or they're a teenager, scared shitless given the power of life or death over another person.

And shit! You forgot to pay speeding tickets so many times and they gave you a gun. Borrowed money from that toothless friend of Dally's. How many people do you got to kill before you become an adult? Ain't like 'Nam was even the first time you saw a boy really, die a violent death. That a body can_ twist_ like that. And then you come to find out how far the human brain and heart, how far _your _human brain and human heart can twist.

That sometimes you can still hear, still _feel_ the unraveling as it tries to return to its normal shape.

And how fuckin' easy it is to fall (or jump) into that void, how there's something perverted and almost holy about that nothingness, ripping the mask off and coming face to face with the darkest part of yourself.

Or how sticky it is.

And they sure as hell won't believe how fuckin' boring it was over there for stretches at a time. Killed more mosquitoes than people because that's boring and fuck Vietnam was supposed to be hell on earth and hell ain't supposed to make you _yawn. _

_Try to remember_ and there's nothing there.

You put a hole through your mouth once. Now it's healed over, but the underlying reason you did that yourself, something strange and drastic and sadistic a need to punish, but almost ecstatic; sort of, kind of, maybe, remains.

Like it got nothing to do with the war at all which only amplified what was always there.

Or maybe there's no meaning. Darry and Pony though they think in different ways believe, in their own way, in the logical ordering of the universe. Darry with his facts, his appeal to reason, common sense. And Pony, well he's a writer, and you reckon that in their own way writers (or at least your brother, since he's the only writer you know) with their talk about symbolism and meaning are really just looking for an origin point, something, or someone that explains why.

But you know, have always known, there's sometimes no meaning, no reason, it just is. Like that sign over your toilet, 'shit happens.'

So maybe the only reason you put a hole in your tongue was because you were drugged out of your damn mind.

But now, with sound of laughter (Mary's laughter) with _Monster Mash_ playing through speakers you rigged up, you may be sort of humming the tune even as you call yourself a _piece of shit_, like you're the Shepard boys from way back when, your self-hatred rings empty.

Think it's over, the grief, guilt, self-hatred. It was twenty-five years ago. Yank it, thin and bloody, like trying to blame Cash's medial issues on your service, on Agent Orange.

Well now you got a World's Best Grandpa Mug. And your head is bopping to the music. And don't take off in the middle of the night, except to your living room and the pop of the Ruffles bag don't mean a thing. That's got to count for something. You're not using anymore. You're better. You pay the bills. Everything is better.

And here's the kicker: it kind of is now.

So you ought to feel some guilt in that.

You slam the fridge door. Your hands are awful cold.

* * *

"Never knew you to be a coward, Curtis." Keith knew he overshot. Like a child, wronged by a parent who starts screaming "I wish you were dead!" True, maybe, but don't that scenery CHOKE going down?

Soda, a plate of cold cuts in his hand, and now, on the counter, doesn't look offended, or amused, or upset. Almost as if he's too old for this shit. But he says nothing, turns around and leaning against the sink he and Pony repaired, and Keith needs to say something, "using your daughter like that, I knew what you were trying to do."

Treading on dangerous territory here, Soda is protective of his wife and children; but the conciliator still, doesn't lash out, but head tilts.

Cock an eyebrow and it's been so long and he's so good at it. Soda's great at impressions, imitations, not even trying, but almost as if he feels everyone so deeply he can't help in some small way becoming them.

Two-Bit takes a step back.

"Don't think I was _tryin'_ to do nothing," and pointedly looks at the cup of pop. Speaks softly, which brings Two-Bit to an edge.

These are the thoughts racing through Two-Bit's mind. Who the hell is Soda Curtis to try to lecture him about clean living? A few drinks? Hell a few drinks is nothing compared to being a junkie. Ex-junkie. If it had been Darry, Pony, Steve, anyone else, Two-Bit wouldn't have given a damn but there's something particularly humiliating about being looked down on by a guy who… well Two-Bit broke the nose of some asshole accusing Soda of something Two-Bit ain't gonna think about.

And now they're in what use be Randle's kitchen (how many beers did he drink in this kitchen back when ol' Don ruled the roost?) Two-Bit's beer gut sticking out. He tries not to remember twenty-six years ago, maybe to the week, at a diner, Soda, himself and some girl he dated between-what's her face, Carrie? Kathy? How Soda felt like a third wheel and split and by the time he made it home, joined the army.

How different things would've been if he made Curtis stay. And for what? For a girl Two-Bit would forget the name of 3 months later.

And this is how he's repaid? His eyes sting. His hand shakes.

All the gawdamned _second chances_ Curtis been given. How spending a night in their guest bedroom he realized how _loudly_ in love they were. How thin the walls are.

Soda looks at it and then up at Two-Bit and hell, like he actually cares. Like he gets it. Doesn't take his eyes off. Two-Bit wants to knock him out even more.

Soda gets on his high horse doing the ten-step two-step, he and Mary actually talked to him about his drinking a few times, their voices quiet and serious, even hers, which pissed Two-Bit off, made him tell a bunch of stupid jokes; 'til Curtis broke in with force : "shut the fuck up."

Casually mentioned A.A. that meets at All Souls, the same place his Veterans group meets and Dammit; Two-Bit doesn't like this one bit.

"You got no goddamn right," Two-Bit struggles to keep his voice even, low enough to not draw attention, gears to toss that rumor. But he doesn't, he can't, and not just because he's standing in Soda's kitchen. Or even though both men are shadows of their former selves, he figures Soda could still slug the hell out of him.

"See here you think I drink too much, tell me not to drink, not saying I'll listen to you, but glory to try to guilt me with Hazer? Brother, that's low. So if you're thinkin' I wouldn't catch your…"

* * *

Superwoman is here, Clark Kent too. Darrel and Catherine Curtis, they arrive with their two youngest, they're the last guests to arrive, 'fashionably late' Cathy jokes. Chocolate cake too, from the bakery, with candy corn borders. Next to green rice krispie treats, brownies, chocolate chip cookies, Oreos and those lil' Keebler Elves that Soda and his children love. Oh yeah, sugar cookies with orange frosting, from Pony's girls, but really from the store after the first batch burnt.

Darry's the type of person to play Mad Libs straight just to fuck with you. Ask Pony, it's Darry with his I-aced-three-years-of-German handshake who is the real rebel of the family. Defying and defiant by the time he reached high school his rebellion circled into conventionality and a Letterman's jacket all while he stayed the same.

He's looks good, real good. Take his shirt off; he'd make a decent Chippendale dancer. As if what Aimee said about how Capricorns look younger as they age wasn't just a bunch of woo woo crap. Brilliant white teeth.

Greets Ponyboy and man hug it. Waves to Daphne and Paige who are eating chips their faces suspended in animated conversation, he can't quite tell if they're gonna burst out into laughter, cry, embrace or cut each other's throats. With those two…

"Bill." Billy says in a firm, but polite tone correcting his Uncle and castrating the 'y' off his name (a few days later, he'll go back to Billy). At fifteen he sounds more like Darry than Darry does.

And then he's off, makes his way to the table with the sodas. Stands there, hands in pockets.

Calling Billy 'son' even though they don't know him. As if his body by taking up more space crossed an invisible line that arouses possession. Ruddy and double chin, a face that screams, 'Iowa.' His bowl haircut growing into something of a mullet and a sort of mustache, an adolescence's shaky first steps into manhood. Wears Wranglers and a Pearl Jam t-shirt. He and C.D. saw them. His first concert: May 2nd, 1992 in Lawrence, Kansas. Had to drive them back with just a learner's permit and "Listen you homo, if we get pulled over…"after C.D. dropped acid, back with a few traces of fuzz above his lips.

He's a catcher, and they call him "Boo Dah" for his shape but also demeanor.

Tommy walking with the swagger of a kid whose mom didn't catch him listening to 2 Live Crew before he came down for scrambled eggs, a banana, toast, jam and sausage patties sloshed in Mrs. Butterworth before heading to school. Maybe he felt a strange stir when he heard "…Sittin' at home with my dick on hard," through his headphones. Maybe his shoe sounded like a WACK hitting the wall as he stared at the cover, those women and their butts.

And then giggle snort 'dick' 'horny.' Heh.

"So is it Tom or Tommy?"

"Tommy, 'sup Uncle Pony?" high pitched and it's hard to believe that in a year he'll be taller than his mom. Or that _Tulsa World_ will one day publish a photo of 'Thomas Curtis' throwing a pitch against Central, his eyes narrowed and steel.

"Looks like you're 'bout to rip one, little bro" the Boo Dah will utter sagely.

But now, _Tommy_ with big eyes and cool handshake. And not about to rip one.

Pony grins, he also is not about to rip one. (When he was fourteen he shook hand with another teen who called a rumble 'bop action.')He watched Uncle Phil throw DJ Jazzy Jeff on front lawn last week too. And does the handshake perfectly, which is easier than Miss. Mary Mac, that he used to do, was forced to do, by his daughters. Also act in their plays and endure numerous operations by Drs. Paige and Daffy and their puppy nurses (who seemed to _enjoy_ violating their Hippocratic Oath), Hunt and Rex.

Grinning Tommy looks like he wandered off a TGIF set: blue-grey eyes, black hair, and dimples. Sort of impish, sort of saccharine. On his way to earning the nickname that will follow him into high school: CTC for 'Cute Tommy Curtis' (also Cunt Tommy Curtis, but that's separate).

For junior high girls to talk about him between furtive looks and covered mouth giggles, before dodging and screaming in disgust the spitball their erstwhile crush launches from the table behind them.

Looking in Uncle Soda's living room like the 'before' pic of a former child star whose name is inevitably followed by "sentenced by a judge to mandatory community service," and proceeded by "the Todd Bridges of the 1990s."

He's twelve and just got his braces off. He's dressed like a baseball player, a pitcher, which isn't a costume but his uniform; because he's too old (because Billy didn't) to wear a costume like a damn baby.

Tomorrow he'll go Trick or Treating with his crew (last year they were his friends) 'aren't you too old for this?' one man will scold and won't give them any candy, doesn't help that Tommy though a grade behind is tall for his age. Slams the door in their faces. They plan on sneaking back and egging his house ("rotten eggs") someone suggests TPing, a bet ($10.00) to piss on his lawn, like a bribe is needed.

But on the morning of November 1st the only thing on the neighbor's front lawn is the newspaper.

Out of the kitchen walks Soda with a pre-made plate of cold cuts. Holds it above his head.

"Least Darry's in something of a costume," he throws his voice to Pony who is is dressed as himself and Soda's dressed as a pirate.

But know that both Soda and Pony Curtis have inhaled burning flesh.

* * *

"You wanna see what I got for my birthday?" Hazer asks her cousin Daphne who is dressed in her _Fiddler on the Roof_ costume, but with pink and blue face paint and glitter, like she's going to Burning Man when she's older. Her brother and Paige saw it and Billy doesn't seem like he'd be interested.

"Sure." Daphne and Hazer pass Tommy coming out of the bathroom, drying his hands on his pants. At Aimee's place, which used to be Pony's too, their girls write a note above the mirror, 'wash your hands ya filthy animal!' Now Hazer writes notes all around her house too.

Tommy with his black hair like Cathy, Hazer with her thick dark brown hair like Mary, Daphne, no longer wearing the wig she did on stage that itched her scalp, but with her bobbed, white-blonde hair like no one, except her dad thinks Dallas Winston who would be 45, but isn't.

The brass knob opens under Hazer's hand, and there it is, her drum set.

"Whoa, nice drum set," Tommy says. Kinda expensive looking, and can't help thinking how sort of run down the house is in general. How small it is compared to his house, even though they have the same number of bedrooms.

"She's like awesome," Daphne wraps her arms around Hazer.

A smile slinks out of the corner of Hazer's mouth before contorting into a scowl. "You ain't never heard me play nothing, how do you know I'm any good?"

"You're my cousin I figured you'd be good," said cheerful but nonchalant, pulling hair behind her ear, behind Aimee's ear too.

Hazer's smile oozes like jelly, fried in a sandwich. "I can't play yet but I'm gonna practice really hard."

_Then why'd your parents buy such a nice drum set?_ Tommy Curtis, Darry and Cathy's son, wonders. Doesn't really make sense.

"Bet you'd be good once you practice," Tommy adds, unable to help the scold in his voice.

She takes a finger and lightly taps it on the cymbal, the sound echoing.

-Hazer, you spelled 'private' wrong.

"Daffy, who cares," says Paige now standing there, dressed as Frida Kahlo. And if the only thing culled from Pony Curtis is the boy who once wrote, "_there was a silent moment when everything held its breath, and then the sun rose. It was beautiful_," it's easy to picture Paige, with her almost ethereal beauty. But also, ears that stick out and thick, unruly eyebrows, though maybe _eyebrow_ is more accurate; "I have the eyebrows to be Frida Kahlo, if I dye them black," she tells her mom. She's got her dad's eyebrows, freckles, and ears, but also eyes.

* * *

Ten feet away is a card table covered with an orange plastic table cloth, covered with bowls of popcorn, pretzels, potato chips (ruffled, sour cream & onion), Doritos and Chex Mix. There are dips too: ranch and onion. The ranch dip is dotted with orange specks because in spite of the paper plates and plastic serving spoons, _someone_ (Paige) dipped their Doritos directly into the dip.

* * *

"Steve Gaines on guitar," and it's Pony who says it, and Soda who shoots a quick peace sign, plays a riff.

* * *

The stage is getting set, their sort of poor man karaoke. Behind Mary has a display of graves of construction paper and pictures of dead rockers, their faces plastered on paper skeletons, whose arms and legs move.

_Is that tacky?_ Cathy wondered, before deciding that with her new swear jar-less existence, she could give a flying fuck.

* * *

But now go back earlier…

"You don't mind me saying, you got very pretty eyes."

Patrick leaned over the counter at Jay's one of those old 50s style diners that only accepted cash and which felt even smaller inside than outside, sitting across from the Walmart that was packed with cars of people doing last minute Halloween shopping. If he looked closely enough he would have seen his stepmom's pink one.

"You got some Asian in you." It was a statement, not a question, and Patrick felt his shoulders tense on memory of Crystal's dad alone. But even before he fully looked up, the warmth (and flirtation) in her voice set him back at ease. Her teeth match the vanilla shake Patrick was drinking.

Felt awkward ordering a milkshake, with a whip cream and cherry on top without Curt. But his dad had introduced him the confection when he moved here (introduced him to the joys of mixing slurpees and vanilla milkshakes, though not to the joys of LSD spiked drinks that he and Mary used to partake).

Patrick stirred the whip cream into his shake, and tried to discreetly scratch his neck, enough to show his wedding ring-least she get the wrong idea, but not obvious enough (he hoped) that she would think that he thought he needed to make sure she didn't get the wrong idea.

"Uh-huh."

"Hmm, lemme guess. Chinese?"

Patrick shook his head no, not sure if he wanted to be subjected to another game of 'guess the ethnicity.'

"Thai?" And Patrick wondered if she was just hungry. He had a place to recommend if she was.

"No. Vietnamese"

"Now, _that's_ an interesting story."

Patrick smiled and shrugged, but didn't want to continue the conversation; he wanted to drink his milkshake in peace.

Most people wouldn't guess he was Asian at first glance. He wondered if her being Black made her more aware by necessity. When he worked with Amerasians like himself he did his best to treat everyone equal, but he had a special sensitivity towards the offspring of Vietnamese women and Black soldiers.

His dad was the same way he thought, had a special closeness towards the marginalized, the underdog.

Even Patrick, as much as he could still feel tiny veins of shoe polish drip down his neck in his mother's futile attempt to dye his hair black, even as he remembered the abuse he sometimes faced, from kids and what was a million times worse, adults, he was accepted in a way that other kids were not. Some not by their mothers.

That they weren't accepted by their fathers seemed par for the course.

And here in the country of their fathers they felt the strong weight of another history.

He knew his Dad and Mary thought of him as 'really' being Patrick Curtis. But the longer he lived in this country (his country) the more his accent siphoned off, the more Patrick needed to hold onto being Vietnamese.

But Patrick (and his dad) understood the deeper reason he kept Nguyen. Anna.

Anna of course wasn't her real name; she had changed it from Bian, the first, but not the last time his mother reinvented herself to get what she wanted. So out of love for her, in appreciation of her, and maybe in gentle repudiation too, he kept the name she gave him. He wouldn't deny himself. He was Patrick Nguyen, born in Saigon, now living in Tulsa. And in that way, even though the sentimentality would make his mother gag, he would be linked through his name to both parents.

* * *

Rumors have a way of whoring themselves out to the lowest bidder. Take what's alleged to have happened to a high school football star (or hero, here the terms play musical chairs with each other) in Crutchfield Park in the autumn of 1965. Some say he was killed in a drug deal gone bad, or by a crazy hobo who jumped the rails and ended up in Tulsa. Then, in the 80s during the McMartin pre-school case when panic about alleged satanic abuse in daycares reached a fevered pitch, it was rumored that he was killed by a devil worshiper, carved and burned alive. Then, it was always added after a pause, his privates stuffed in his mouth.

And Mary bought into the stories she read and wanted to take Hazer out of day care. And Soda, despite sort of looking like a guy selling stolen copies of _The Anarchist Cookbook_ out of van, was the rational one and talked her down and out of it. Suggested that maybe all the True Crime stuff she read wasn't good for her. And closed his eyes where the real nightmares begin.

Or maybe no one died? Hear this, rich boy wanted to leave home, hated his parents, so he faked his death and is now in Mexico or Europe or Alaska; living life as an aged hippie, like those Japanese pilots found on nearly deserted islands not realizing the war was long over.

Still, almost every year the guy, his name was Bob, though some people call him David, dies again. One year some kids tried to evoke his spirit, standing on the cement on the spot where he is alleged to have been killed.

But no, they need to move three feet to the left to stand in the exact spot Robert Sheldon stood as he was knifed and stand there now and feel, ever so faintly a cool breeze.

* * *

Crystal Nguyen (or Jones or Shepard too) watched the legs of the clock moonwalk backwards. She didn't take a lunch break today; she (and Patrick) watched a Halloween parade at their son's school.

Curt was Shredder, the villain from the Ninja Turtles. It's a good sign, she thinks, it means her son is a fighter, won't give in to no one and in that moment tries to rile up stagnated resentment towards her ex-husband.

That he only has Curt every other Friday and weekend but is always relying on his dad and stepmom to babysit, especially now that he had that baby with that stuck-up crossed eyed bitch who always looked down on Crystal (though it's hard to tell exactly _what_ Casey's eyeing) like Casey don't work with horses all day and smell like manure. Is that what Patrick likes? To fuck a girl who smells like horse shit?

A snort and she tries not to remember how tired he looked, or the way her heart contracts when she remembers how he kissed Curt goodbye, how excited Curt was to see his dad. Course he's excited, his Daddy comes 'round as often as Santa Clause, thought bitterly. Her snide remark about how good it was for him to take time off work (and Casey) to spend time with their son. And Patrick standing his ground, not taking the bait, but asking her if she received his child support payment for November, she did. He may be getting a raise at work, which he points out, would mean more money. She tries to sound indifferent, but living with her mom and little sister and sometimes Uncle Tim and whatever relations float in and out like smoke, she wants a place of her own for herself and Curt. She knows Patrick does too, asks her about when she's moving out, volunteers to help her with the move, even rent, which only serves to make Crystal not want to leave. She's stubborn like that.

"Isn't the lil' lady (never mind Casey's all gangly like an oversized Howdy Doody) gonna throw a fit about you giving your money to your ex-wife?" The attitude no longer feels alien, not after Crystal's been up since six cleaning bedpans and giving sponge baths down at the old folk's home.

"_Casey _has a bigger issue with her stepson living in that overcrowded house with your mother passed out on the couch."

It's a mess; she'll be the first to admit it, her relationship with her mom, with her ex-husband, her constant shifting between being the agreeable daughter and the catty ex-wife. Not like his family's perfect, his mother's a cunt and his stepmom's legitimately crazy. Crystal can picture it: Angela and Mary bitch fighting on the front lawn, an image both hysterical and cringe worthy even though it never happened. The laughter turns, sputters; Patrick would've laughed too.

Everyone hates her, she knows, except her mother (another reason she won't leave Angela). She knows what people at school thought of her, slutty (despite barely dating anyone but Patrick) white trash who dug her nails into Patrick, the nice beautiful foreign boy, who's always holding the doors open.

But none of them knew what it was like to be married to him, how what he called 'Buddhist detachment' could turn so cold. How he won every argument by hardly saying a word just that stare. How much he could_ hurt_ without laying a single finger. That she turned to another man because she wanted to make Patrick jealous and wanted to feel the way he used to make her feel, before the baby.

How Angela didn't think a blow job was really cheating at all. But it didn't matter, not to Patrick, who divorced her, said he couldn't trust her, how she screamed and yelled on Soda's lawn how sorry she was. How she was relieved to see that flash of anger (it meant he still felt something for her, if just hatred); but he only exclaimed, "You're seriously doing this in front of my parents? You left Curt with your mother to carry on like this in front of everyone? Are you fucking kidding me?" Then the pain in his eyes that she wasn't meant to see, "haven't you done enough already?"

Then her husband, as calm, as_ robotic_, told her to calm down. How when she wouldn't because it was her marriage on the line, he wordlessly picked her up and carried her to her car, kicking and screaming (but not biting. Angela would have bit, not her daughter). How he put her down, though his hands gripped too hard when he grabbed her shoulders and shook. "Go home Crystal," how he had said those words, like her home was never his home too.

* * *

Carlson Curtis is at his first year at Harvard, but really now, at an ACT-UP demonstration. But not in ol' Tulsey Town which is all that needs to be said. And how easy is it, when you cut out your hometown, to cut out your family with it. But he misses Gino's Pizza.

* * *

If there is hesitation, it dissipates when he follows her naked into the bedroom. She loves walking around in the nude. The house smells like lavender. She moves to let him open her up and he starts to lick, a pube caught in his teeth. Lips lock and he sucks and kisses, swallowing. Tastes her inside his throat.

She knows him, knows that he's good at wood carving and basic furniture making, that he has a sarcastic sense of humor when you know him, and a weird, off-beat sense of humor when he really knows you. He has a tickle fetish. She still finds his bushy eyebrows a turn on.

* * *

In a rare moment of inconsideration Patrick throws a Big Mac wrapper out the window. He feels overwhelmed like the world is crushing down on him, but he can't tell Casey that, he has to be strong for her, for all of them. Ever since Cash was diagnosed she's been talking about therapies, been a whirl of energy focused on their son. He's trying, to be solid for her, to take care her, his sons, even Crystal. Sometimes he feels the meditations are the only thing keeping him sane.

-YOU FUCKING SONOFABITCH!

Sheepishly, he apologizes to his wife. The size and volume of his lungs and temper throws him for a loop as he eyes the car that almost cut him off. The baby's sleeping through it all which is all that matters. Still gripping the steering wheel, he can't help but chuckle, he must be the world's worst Buddhist.

* * *

Already having eaten, Pony makes a quick stop at McDonald's for a coke, brushing his hair down. He and Aimee didn't have sex very often, but it felt stranger taking a shower at the house he and Aimee brought when they moved back to Tulsa than doing his ex. Out of the corner of his eye his spots a wrapper. Pulling over, muttering, he picks it up and tosses it in the trash.

* * *

Hazer wrote the sign on their door, "If were rocking don't come knocking." Her parents thought it was hilarious, but then wanted to know what she thought 'rocking' meant.

"I dunno listen to music?"

Soda knew it wasn't possible, knew it wasn't even desirable, but in that moment he wanted to preserve Hazer as being this innocent forever. In high school Hazer will make a personal Valentine's for her boyfriend, "I hope all my abortions look like you," complete with doilies and crayon drawn hearts. Tells her counselor with a straight face she wants to open a Christian-Erotic bake shop with anatomically correct Jesuses.

But that's in the future.

* * *

Soda is in his bathroom, jacking off. He can't stop any of it.

* * *

Around the time they had Daphne, Pony found renewed interest in mythology. Read Walter F. Otto's work on Dionysus. And Soda was never a Greek god come to earth, how far up Soda's (gorgeous) ass was Pony to write that? But think about it. About Dionysus, the beautiful flawed god of pleasure and frenzy, destruction and rebirth, couldn't they also be talking about Soda?

* * *

Their parties used to be infamous. Of course back then look at Soda and think, 'whelp that's a man who snorts coke off a lot of tits and clits' and yup-nailed it. Though the latter was kinda a let down and while it look cool as fuck having a girl do a line off his cock, all it did was sort of numb the area. Also, fucking who knows who. Sometimes more than one 'who' at a time. But that he can't even put off on the drugs, age eighteen and before Basic, with two girls in the back bedroom at Buck's. The parties were a blast. That's what people don't get, the partying, the drugs, with Mary and without, all of it, he knows he's supposed to have nothing but regrets, but that time of his life was fun.

* * *

And Mary and Soda were running around like headless chickens trying to get everything set up.

"Who the…_fuck's _responsible for this?" Mary's glaring at Soda like she screamed, not mouthed, her fuck; pointing to Mama Cass and taped right above Cass Eliot's head, a Buddig ham wrapper. She tears it down, chipping her pinkie nail in the process.

"Wow, pretty tasteless, huh?" Soda squints getting a closer view and said with a poker face that wouldn't need to hide an ace in his shoe. As if next Halloween his woman won't talk about going as Lorena Bobbitt.

"Get back here, we ain't done yet, I still wanna know what happened to my ham. There were at least four slices left and you know I like my finger sandwiches before bed." Her hands are on her hips. She means _on the_ bed. While watching T.V. or reading _The Stranger Beside Me_. Her finger sandwiches of slices of meat and sometimes cheese wrapped around her fingers, sucked and nibbled. "Just like the Queen of England," she'll say, fishing out a nibble of Kraft from the edge of her belly button.

* * *

"Keep it clean, Tom," Darry warns like a dad who found "_As Nasty As They Wanna Be_" under a candy wrapper, neon colored shoe strings, a seven balloons covered Birthday Card from Grandma and Grandpa, who didn't need to be distinguished Grandma and Grandpa _Carlson_, in a shoebox; like a man whose wife supports Parental Advisory stickers (and who danced to _Louie, Louie_ with long charcoal sheen hair at fifteen and wanted by two boys).

Tommy raps. _Parents Just Don't Understand_. They cheer for him like he's good. "All right! Way to go T-Dawg!" Soda hollers, cupping his mouth, his face an eruption of enthusiasm. Some Oscars should probably be handed out tonight. Then the encore no one asked for, The Fresh Prince theme song. Then as soon as Tommy's out of eyeshot Soda gives Pony a look that says I've seen a lot of shit in my 44 years but what the fresh hell was _that_?" Trying to hold it in, but Pony bursts out laughing at T-Dawg's expense.

"Paul Simon-Simon," Darry whispers in his wife's ear before getting up to use the washroom. She's subdued tonight, thinking about her oldest son, away at college. Darry tells her she's worrying too much, kids ain't supposed to want to call their parents when they're away, living life as bona fide adults (with help from Mom & Dad's pocketbook) for the first time. Never mind Karen called, homesick, almost every night that first week. But this feels different, with C.D. it always has, always will. Paul Simon-Simon was a Halloween costume he wore one year, half of his body dressed as Senator Paul Simon the other half as Paul Simon the singer. And lost his shit when everyone thought he was Orville Redenbacher.

"Could've been worse," Darry reminded Cathy at the time, originally C.D. wanted to go as "Huey-Fig-Newton."

"How's Karen doing?" Asks Evelyn Randle, as Cathy absentmindedly claps for Daffy, still holding a bittersweet smile thinking of her son and his ridiculous Halloween costume.

Oh Karen! How easy it is to talk about Karen! How much easier it is to_ think_ about Karen. Yes, let's_ all_ talk about Karen Curtis, a _'Who's Who'_ book in human form. Karen loves Wake Forest, yes, she still plays tennis, and she joined a sorority, in fact right now they're putting on a benefit for Hurricane Andrew relief (and_shhh_usedtosneakouttospendthenightwithherboyfriendbypretendingtobestayingoveratafriendshouse).

Karen Curtis, who traded in her side pony tail, looks down at her salmon colored shorts, her palms hitting her thighs in tandem with three other girls, also in pastel shorts who hit their thighs on the same beat. They count back from three, turn around their shades protecting them from the blinding lights and open their matching ruby lips:

"_Motownsphilly's back again."_

* * *

"You wanna sing our song, baby?" Slink a skinny finger and now Mary is holding her daughter's hand and gives a grin that rockets to the galaxy.

She knows Hazer is going to say no, but she always asks. But that Halloween night with her black tutu on, with her witch hat, with her black shirt with the sparkly rainbow and unicorn she's not Hazer, she's a witch.

And witches can do anything. That's what Paige said. Except, float.

And her mother, sharp bones, sharper nails and the sharpest teeth is all bright warmth in her jagged cut feral beauty. Hazer isn't afraid of singing in front of all these people because she's a witch and her mama is the moon. And because just a few minutes earlier, Mary introduced Hazer to an old friend of hers as, "_**my Hazer**_." And her mother, her voice, her fingers, her smile tug on Hazer's shyness until what's left underneath is the little girl who looks down at her sparkly rainbow and unicorn and nods yes.

Mary tries hard to clamp down on her enthusiasm, "you sure Hazer? You don't gotta baby." She tries to stage whisper but even her whisper is rushed and loud and Paige looks over to see what's going on, while she adjusts her necklace, two bones on a silver chain.

Hazer nods again and stands up, adjusting her tutu like the little diva Mary Hernandez Curtis's daughter was born to be and holding her mother's hand walks up on the makeshift stage.

Soda gives his girls a grin.

Mary tilts her head to the guitar, but Soda shakes his head no, instead he sits crossed legged in front of them, partly because he wants to give Hazer someone to focus on if she gets a bit nervous, but mostly because he wants to hear her.

Patrick, Casey and Cash now all cleaned up join him. Patrick points to the empty spot next to their dad, "May I sit here?" he asks his little sister, whom he loves very much. Hazer nods, her face is serious. Neither of them look like the type of people who would jokingly grab a gun out of cop's holster, but both of them, Soda's kids.

"Come on join us," Mary tells the Nguyens, "We'll be like the Partridge Family," and Soda gives an encouraging slap on the shoulder, Patrick, who loves club music and who used to DJ on the side, laughs but says no thanks.

Cash and his pumpkin all slobbered in his mouth sits in his daddy's lap, watching Hazer. His dad's finger curled in his hair.

"Smokey or Bonnie?" Mary calls out to Hazer as she goes through the records her fingers shaking. The Chipmunks? On the blessed soul of Patsy Cline, who's responsible for this shit? That must have been a gag gift someone gave them one year, or hell maybe Soda picked it up at some second hand store. Heroin addiction does have a dark side.

She would tell Soda one day, half in jest, half not, "we may be shitty parents but at least we got good taste in music." But then she remembers: The Chipmunks.

"Bonnie, she sings that song with more soul, plus, we're both women, we should sing a song by a woman."

Mary loves disco and country and rock, Jimi Hendrix on the guitar; but she was born to sing the blues. Janis Joplin leaps out of her throat in a voice raw and guttural.

Her lips vibrates as her voice climbs on top of Bonnie's, like the two of them are wolves fighting and fucking, but heated in love all the same. But her body does something it almost never does when she's singing, it stays still. She's looking at Hazer, like she's the only person in the world.

"_You really got a hold on me, baby." _

The microphone now in front of her, is so big, picking up the sounds of her nostrils, her breathing.

And she sings, softly at first with no emotion, but with perfect pitch. Darry gives Pony a look, 'holy shit, did you know she did this'? This being sings in public, this being sing beautifully. This being sing at all. Pony knew.

"_I don't want you, but I need you."_ She looks at her mom.

And she hears clapping and cheers, but she doesn't hear them. Everything around her buzzes into static of T.V. on a stormy night, even Bonnie's voice, even her Dad's loud clapping and whistling.

She closes her eyes and everything inside of her is full and she could run a mile and she could burst out laughing and she could cry and everything feels so overwhelming and moves. Tommy turns red, but wants to giggle, he doesn't know why, he did the same thing when he accidently walked in on Karen naked, which he did, according to Karen because he's a "PERVERRRTTT!"

But Hazer Land Curtis, Soda and Mary's daughter, Patrick's sister, Curt and Cash's aunt, the granddaughter of Darrel, Jo, Enrique and Theresa, only sways, slow at first, but then faster until their faces all blend together like melted crayons, she looks at her mama who has tears (and waterproof mascara) running down her cheeks. And once again is centered:

_Oh, oh, oh_

_You do me wrong now_

_My love is strong now_

_You really got a hold on me._

* * *

Mary and Soda lock eyes for a brief second and here's the tricky part, maybe it's their song too?

* * *

_**A/N:**_

_**Yes, I know weird story! ;) **_

_**The shout out to Gino's and the Gent-Curtis clan's puppies Rex and Hunt are of course honor of my beautiful friend and north star, the out of this world talented HappierThanMost and her soul defining Soda Curtis and entire Curtis family, including two of Soda's sons, Rex and Hunt. This story dedicated to her and her characters. **_

_**"The Party and the Sounds..." is from 'Untamed and Wild Things' from Rocky Horror Picture Show. Motownsphilly is by Boyz II Men. You've Really Got A Hold On Me was written and originally performed by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. Bonnie is Bonnie Bramlett and the song Hazer sings is her version of "You've Really Got A Hold On Me" off her Lady's Choice LP. **__**'On Children' is by Kahlil Gibran "Your Children are not your children..."**__**The Walter F. Otto book is "Dionysus: Myth and Cult" Tommy listens to 'Me So Horny' by 2 Live Crew. 'Lola lo Kinx' is in honor of "Lola" by The Kinks. **_

_**S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders /Shepard family and Casey who is from her Taming the Star Runner book. **_

_**Truly thank you to all of you, I so deeply appreciate everyone who reads/reviews, from the bottom of my heart: you guys are the best. Thank you. **_


	2. Chapter 2

"You look good, like this." He says softly, tilting his head towards her. Stretching his naked body to the limits until his achilles hits the exposed curve of the mattress. His socks hanging over the edge.

"Like what, like a slob?" Her vibrant laughter equal parts bubbly and rough, she's the vodka and the rocks. Pulls on her sweats, pulls on his t-shirt that even with repeated washes hangs down to mid-thigh.

"Nah," pushing on a tired smile, "like _this_," points his foot towards her, "more natural."

Then pauses, looks at her without makeup, with tired lines under her eyes where her eyeliner was. Her eyes aren't too close together. They reminded him of Johnny's. The eyes of a survivor. Now, they're hers. And Hazer's.

Against his own eye the phatomized weight of his pirate patch. He blinks slowly. Inside, she is as illuminating in his darkness as she is right in front of him. "You're beautiful, you know."

"Huh huh, just wait 'til I get out of these, then we'll really be in the jungle, nature boy;" but is still smiling to herself as her thumb brushes against her naval, in the space between the elastic band and her skin.

Her lips curl up like Elvis, whom she never got. She squeezes, but let's out a tiny fart. Before, she would have made a joke about setting the mood to hide her embarrassment. Now, Soda is her friend, the man she sexes up with, her husband, the man who has seen (and been the instigator) of all sorts of substances entering and exiting her body; and because of all that, and most of all because he's Soda, the person she can fart in front of.

She's the most honest and whole person he knows. He swallows hard and draws his fingernails in a straight line formation down his chest, down his heart. As if he could split himself in two.

He watches her undress, her silk underwear shackled around her ankles. And just as easy, she slides them off, leaving them disregarded on the floor. Beyond her, just over her shoulder like a parrot, but really, on the wall, a cross. That her cross is made out Heineken caps and painted a _Pink Flamingos_ shade doesn't mean it's not a cross. That she's not also, traditional.

"Please, let me," he lifts up her shirt, brushing his fingers along the bony line of her spine, the part of her skin almost pale against his bronzed thumb and fingers.

Her bra lands cup size up. On her toes she spins, faces him. His hands wrap around Mary the Mother of God to keep her steady. His tongue reaches deep inside her inviting mouth.

Over her bra she trips.

"You al…"

Cuts his autopilot concern with a wave of her hand and a laugh, "good thing these ain't Dolly Parton titties," lifting her breasts up, "I just imagine her bra being like two massive black holes, ya know? Like, her boobs are so gigantic you could jump in a cup and land in China or something. Imagine having boobs like _that_." And laughs, her own not quite _flopping_ back down.

"Think they're real babes? You know them celebrities are always getting new noses or tits." The mattress sinks with him.

"These?" presses her fingers into her nipples, the ones her brother-in-law didn't stare into. "One-hundred percent certifiable."

"Still say you shoulda bottled and sold that titty juice when you had the chance. Hell we could've turned you into the next Chef Boyardee," his eyes light up and smirks, "Chef Boob R Dee, right darlin'? Huh, Mare?"

Sometimes, he wishes he had more of Darry's dry wit or Pony's quirkiness and sarcasm. Or even Two-Bit's goofy, absurd jokes and tall tales. But the guy who can laugh uproariously at Tommy's bathroom humor, give Darry a knowingly wry grin, and allow Pony to be silly as well as sarcastic, that _got_ all of them, is needed.

No one cracks him up like his wife. How she made him want to laugh again. How that was harder than laughing in the first place. She still makes him howl until his eyes burn. Saying things that despite the easy ways all those fucks and shits mosey out of his own mouth make him retort, "damn woman, you kiss me with that mouth?"

And then kisses her anyways. And hard.

She laughs at herself a lot. His humor too often cuts below self-depreciation into self-decapitation. It hurts her, to see him hurt himself, but she doesn't know how to stop it.

He could be a real riot. Least what could be called 'gallows humor.' He doesn't ever want to be that man again, even if it helped him survive. Even if still, he is.

She doesn't think about what she doesn't talk about.

She swings a pillow and it feels like a welcomed splash of cold water on his face.

* * *

Looks at the Band-Aid wrapped around her toe. Earlier, after the trick or treaters, after he did the dishes, after goodnight prayers with Hazer, he rubbed them between his palms as they watched T.V.; as she caught up on her Soaps from last week. Yawning, he thought he was going insane when every time he glanced at the T.V. and saw the same scene over and over—until he saw her fingers press down on the rewind button.

Now her costume, minus a few feathers, is bunched up on a chair. How small it looks, curled up like that, weighed down under his pirate belt and sash. Did he not see it there before he threw his junk on top? He stares at the skull with the crossbones and stares back at him. With his eyes.

He jolts up and grabs her by surprise. Wraps his arms tight around her waist, feels the ridges where the elastic band marked her skin and pulls her into him. Lowers his voice into something wolfish, seductive, theatrical. How she likes it. His fingernails draw down her neck, his other hand rubbing her, his tongue licking her ear.

"Mary," he growls and she turns back to face him. Her eyes aroused and hungry. In his soft, slow drawl whispers all the things he's going to do to her, and again, how sexy she looked in that "little witchy thing."

His eyes are teeth.

And so are hers.

"I'll put something on." He says with confident assurance. His fully extended tongue sweeps across her neck.

They did _Sexual Healing_ of course, a lot of Prince, but he felt that the best songs were the ones that didn't talk about sex, not directly. What was most important couldn't be said at all.

Sometimes the songs they picked were raunchy and vulgar, sometimes tender and romantic, sexy, throbbing beats or long held violin notes. Many of the songs were aggressive, wild and fierce; a lot of times, humorous, goofy and bizarre. It was their sex, their marriage, their love, amplified and set to a beat that would never catch them. Could never catch them.

* * *

Though the years weathered the edges of his face it has not dulled the throbbing ache his beauty pulsates deep inside her most intimate parts as his shoulders and upper back slow slide up the wall. To watch her.

She strides on the pluck of a long guitar string, feels the soft give as her feet press into the carpet, the barely audible echo of foam.

His tongue does the Electric Slide over the rim of his mouth. And when that honeyed smile drips oh so slowly from behind those wet lips, not even the emerging fullness of his erection compares. And Soda's hung like a bull.

She likes him to take control but cannot deny the rush that opens her mouth in a primordial moan watching her man lie in barely contained wait. For her.

"_Don't even think about reachin' me…" _He groans his hand warm and pulsating. He sounds like a panther.

From this angle he doesn't have back issues, doesn't get sore muscles. From here his body is as young, as perfect, as timeless as ever.

Straddling him; her hands knead deep into his chest. His body lean and defined. His torso hard. The scent of salt enters her nostrils.

Her eyes laser on him charged and potent. She wants him to fuck her hard.

She probes the rest of his body with her hands and he fills inside of her.

* * *

Mary Curtis rests her hair damp and disheveled on top of her husband's chest, feeling his heartbeat against her open mouth. Her ponytail holder on a wet spot next to her hand.

His eyes half close as he runs his hands slowly up and down her back, a soothing post sex ritual.

"We shouldn't work."

Abruptly his hand stops at the small of her back.

He fucked too many women to count, but two of them had a claim on him, both fearless in their own way. But only one had the power to truly hurt him. To decimate him. And it wasn't the one who liked to choke him in bed.

Mary doesn't talk about the power she has over him. If she has the power, how is he supposed to protect her?

Not that she's meek or subservient to him. She's fought him, teased him, called him out on his bullshit. In short she's blunt.

This wasn't what he needed to hear right after they made love. Then again, _Footsteps _and _Yellow Ledbetter _were unusual choices, even for them. But something in the raw vulnerability of the chords pulsated deep inside Soda. He's always been drawn to the hurt. To the vulnerable. Maybe because he feels it so much himself. And what was sex with someone you loved but the most primal form of vulnerability?

Her chin rests on his chest and in her own vulnerability Soda feels an overwhelming love for her, he cups his hands around her head.

"But we do." His voice so assured it trespasses on contradiction.

Everything is reversed; she's the deep one, submerging herself in the depth of difficult emotion and he's the blunt optimist.

He's naked, but feels like he's wearing a mask.

"Do you miss it?" The worry and guilt in her voice makes him hurt so much for her.

"Sometimes…"

"I can't," she says her breath rising, and he finds himself on deeply felt instinct rubbing circles on her back, an almost maternal gesture,"at the party, and Hazer, my God, Soda, can you believe that's _our _baby?" Her eyes shine with pride. With, despite the Cross, with disbelief.

And if they have Hazer, if they went from drug addicts to her parents how can they not work?

Soda gives her a small smile and shakes his head. "Course she's incredible, just look at her mama."

Mary lets out a hollow laugh and slaps his chest, "settle down with the compliments there toots your dick already has VIP access to my pussy." But her retort comes out rattled, like a comedian trying to remember a joke a decade past its prime. "I feel so awful, and I know I'm the sickest person for thinking this way, but at the party with all our family and friends I missed the fun we used to have with each other. You know?"

He knows.

He knows what Anna would say, with a rapacious gleam in her eyes, "you're sick Soda." And then she'd laugh at him and he would feel okay in his darkness.

He's never felt okay in his darkness with Mary.

"You ain't sick Mary. You're the best person I know." He says with conviction. He feels an unbearable loneliness inside his chest.

"Are you happy Soda?"

It's a question he hates coming from almost anyone else. How do they not get the guilt he feels when he says yes, and means it?

But with Mary he looks deep inside himself. Yes, there is the guilt and loneliness. But underneath, underneath it all. Is he _happy_ right now?

He has his wife, his son, his daughter, his grandsons, his brothers, his family and friends. And even beyond that, a decent paying job. He does a mean _Electric Slide_. He has a house with a sink that's always on the fritz. It's the fucking American dream.

And on this date, October 31st, 1992 with the moon in waxing crescent Soda Curtis is happiest he's ever been. The happiest he ever will be.

An uncontrolled laughter shoots out of him. Her neck vibrates on top of his chest. On top of his heart.

She laughs, because his laughter is contagious. Because he's _happy. _

On the tail end of his laughter which threatens to spill them off the bed and into euphoric hysteria his stomach jolts violently. He jerks straight up. His arms still around his wife. Pulling her up with him. He's filled with an overwhelming _feeling_. This happiness can't last. It won't last. That there's an unimaginable _pain_ in being this happy, because you know it's going to end. And this happiness, this joy will never come back to them.

It doesn't work that way.

Standing at the edge of something he cannot yet recognize, but all he knows is that _he can't stop it._

Grabs his wife by wrists, yanks them. Pulls her towards him. She lets out a nervous laugh. He has his dad's eyes, but in this moment, his mother (and older brother's) stare.

He needs to tell her, tell her _everything_. All the stuff he's been trying to keep down and away. Even if it hurts her. He needs to be the one to hurt her now. In order to protect her. That she could _still_ be happy if she leaves him. He knows how to do it. To hurt people. He'll look her straight in the eyes. And let her go.

He looks into his wife's eyes that ooze with compassion. _For him_.

"Please, please, please don't leave me." It comes out in a choked whisper. Something older, something _younger _than his 44 years.

He can't stop crying. Everything is breaking, doesn't she get this? He's breaking. This_ joy_ is breaking him.

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," she is such a _mother_ she brushes her fingers along his hair and pulls him towards her. His head bowed between her breasts. "It's okay, it's okay, baby." But the tears still come, he can't stop them.

* * *

Soda Curtis rests his head on his wife's chest, feeling her heartbeat against his open mouth. She's asleep, her fingers are still inside his hair.

His eyes are frozen open into the bright violent white of the ceiling. He can't blink, can't close them.

It plays over and over again in his head.

_And I know, and I know I don't want to stay at all_

And could _**this**_ be their song too?

_Make me cry_.

* * *

A/N: Footsteps and Yellow Ledbetter owned by Pearl Jam, off the B side of _Jeremy_. And if you look up the story behind Footsteps, well at least they didn't make out to "Alive." ;)

S.E. Hinton owns.

Thank you.


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